


The Malibu Press Club

by Juniper200



Category: Iron Man (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juniper200/pseuds/Juniper200
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fucking bills. Fucking freelancing. Fucking Tony Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Malibu Press Club

Christine leans back from her desk, cracks her knuckles, and shakes her head. She’s made it through 500 words since lunch, but they’re all crap. She punches ctrl+a, pounds the DEL key and curses her luck.

She’s got that airline magazine piece to get through before the 23rd – that’ll handle the water bill and the cable. Outdoors wants 5,000 words on the retro hipsters who think surfing Malibu is lame enough to be cool again. They’ll cut it down to 900 words, but that check will cover the electricity and her gym membership.

It’s the Vanity Fair piece – the one that was supposed to be safely nestled in the Conde Nast servers months ago – that will pay the rent and a modest chunk of her Nordstrom charge bill. It’s not her fault that she’s started, deleted and restarted the piece three times already. That, she blames on kidnappings, earth-shattering press conferences and god only knows what’ll come next.

Fucking freelancing. Fucking Tony Stark.

She snorts. Yes, that was the problem to begin with.

At first, it had seemed like an excellent idea – scratch an itch, get some Gonzo-style insight on the story that would have made even Hunter Thompson blush, and get bragging rights forever at bachelorette parties and cocktail hours, all in one fell swoop.

Then she woke up alone, took a walk of shame and found she couldn’t write for shit for a couple days. Which turned out not to matter, because within 36 hours, her one night stand was missing in Afghanistan and she had to start the whole damned story over again.

Three months later, she was within striking distance of wrapping up her supporting interviews, hitting “send” and washing her hands of the whole business when Lazarus Stark strolls out of the desert with a smoke detector sticking out of his sternum, and she’s taking calls from Graydon Carter about how the whole thing has to be overhauled. Of course.

Yesterday, that jackass had the gall to announce he was a superhero, and Christine thinks she might take up supervillainy in the hopes that she’ll get lucky and kill him so she can finally get this piece through to rewrite.

One o’clock. The mail’s probably here by now, and a walk to the mailbox will help her shake off some of her frustration.

Bills, supermarket coupons, credit card applications, the usual…and a cream-colored envelope that feels like a refugee from another, less stressful, world.

Inside, she finds an embossed notecard.

_The Malibu Press Club_  
cordially invites  
Ms. Christine Everheart  
to its Annual Membership Meeting  
at 10:00 a.m. Sunday  
at Camellia Grill. 

 

\---------

She steps to the maître d's podium and gives him her professional smile. She’s brought interview subjects here on different magazines’ dimes, and she likes to stay friendly with the staff.

He takes her to a private dining room, where a small group of presswomen greet her with smiles and air-kisses. They order brunch, and as the waiters bring in a round of mimosas, Jillian Koss stands from her seat at the head of the table.

“Well, now that Christine’s joined us,” she says with the instantly recognizable voice and smile that uses every night on the evening news, “I’d like to call this meeting to order.” There’s a smattering of applause and a few catcalls from the other end of the table. (This isn’t the first round of mimosas.)

Jillian waits for quiet again. “Since we’ve got a new member, I think it’d be best if we start the meeting by introducing ourselves.” She smiles at Christine. “I’m Jillian from NBC 9, and I joined the club July 15, 1999.”

The introductions proceed around the table.

“Alisa Maultsby, Newsweek. November 11, 2003.”

“Faye Reyes, US Weekly. April 28, 2007.”

“Petra Balzer, scathingbitches.com. January 1, 2005.”

“Paige Tso, Financial Times. Also January 1, 2005.”

And so on.

The woman next to Christine needs no introduction – she’d started as an investigative reporter for the Washington Post as Glen Pearman, then gone on to make headlines as Glenna Pearman after her 1995 sex change when she wrote a bestseller about sexism in the White House press corps. But she goes through the motions anyway.

“Glenna Pearman, freelance. March 20, 1991, and again on August 25, 1998.”

It’s Christine’s turn.

“Hi. I’m Christine Everhart, and I’m so honored to have been invited today.” Someone down the table snorts champagne through her nose, but Christine continues. “I’m a freelancer, too. And I guess I joined today, October –“

“Oh no, dear,” says Glenna, patting her on the arm. “You didn’t join today.”

“Oh? Well, I suppose I got the invitation on Tuesday –“

“Not Tuesday, either,” Petra says. “I think Joey from X17 –“

“Oh, is Joey finally off Britney’s house,” someone asks. “I was so afraid for him for a while!”

“Oh, yes. He’s been back on estate duty since March,” Petra says. “Anyway, Christine, he got a shot of you joining the club May 22.”

May 22…oh shit. _Fucking Tony Stark._

Damn it, she needs to stop thinking that.

She must be blushing, because Glenna pats her protectively again. “Oh dear, Christine. What did you think we were all doing here?”

“I thought it was…a press club? Networking? Talk about the job?”

“Oh, we talk about the job, all right,” giggles Alisa, and Christine thinks it’s probably time someone cuts her off – she’s sloshing on the tablecloth. “Did he do the thing with the tie and make his living room flirt with you?”

Christine sinks deeper into her chair, motions for another mimosa, and decides she’ll divulge the part about the tie, but the things that go on between a woman, a man and his living room are meant to stay private.


End file.
